Grudges
by reflecting
Summary: "They were both people who held grudges, and with the sharp edge their heightened intellect lent them, they were often quite ruthless in their ways." A take on the Holmes siblings' relationship. NO incest.


**Characters: **Mycroft, Sherlock, John

**Genres: **Gen, family, hurt/comfort

**Warnings: **English is not my first language, this has not been Brit-picked. Characters may seem OOC. Some cussing and possibly disturbing mental images mentioned in passing.

**Notes: **Proof-read by my lovely **EclecticRegard/Shizuka-Ame**! :) This is a sort of companion piece to our collab drabble collection "Former Days" which you can find on her page. Oh and in this, there might be a tad bit of John/Sherlock if you squint.

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><p><strong>Grudges<strong>

They were both people who held grudges, and with the sharp edge their heightened intellect lent them, they were often quite ruthless in their ways. While Sherlock was by far the more unruly one, striking out harsh and obvious, all loud noise and movement, he was not as vicious as Mycroft himself. Mycroft would not allow him to be, because sometimes he would look himself in the mirror and wonder what he had become. Those moments were fleeting, however, because Mycroft knew exactly what he'd become, what he'd made himself into.

It had started with a need to challenge his mind, but then Sherlock came along and it became more than that. He had a fellow student now, someone to solve Mummy's puzzles with; he wasn't alone anymore. Then father died, and Mycroft thinks this was the turning point for both brothers.

Sherlock, always so susceptible to change around him, change he had no hand in preventing or creating, made it his personal agenda to seek revenge. That was how it started, anyway. As he grew, his reasons and intentions grew muddled and the boy was no longer conscious of why he was so dependent on these puzzles, on the thrill of jumping into danger and come out alive. Mycroft, on the other hand, had turned his mind and effort to never again lose his family prematurely. He became teacher rather than student, man of the house rather than genius-level teenager, authority rather than equal. He settled himself behind Prime Ministers and the Queen, spun a web in the government where he observed, remembered, and orchestrated. Help in form of special OPS, guns, and doctors were a phone call away wherever his family was, with artificial eyes trained on them wherever it was possible. Control. Safety. Quite the opposite of his little brother, who thrived in chaos and danger.

Sometimes they rubbed each other the wrong way. It was inevitable; they were siblings. So alike on a base level yet different enough to come to blows. Mycroft had learned to deal. He'd helped raise the gangly youth running down the streets of London high on adrenaline, after all. Much bark but little bite was what it came down to. This, however, was not quite true with himself. On the few times he truly lost his temper, the few times his little brother tested even his normally unshakable control, Mycroft did not bark. He bit viciously, ruthlessly. After Sherlock's O.D., when his big brother had spent days (he hadn't even been able to recall the exact amount of time) by his hospital bed, clutching a pale, fragile hand and waiting –_begging_ – for a twitch of life, there was no mercy in his eyes when Mycroft met his gaze.

They were people who held grudges, and while Sherlock sulked, sneered, taunted, and rejected him, Mycroft buried himself in his little brother's mind and broke his facade apart until he was a young, lost boy again, fighting back tears. And he smoothed his fingers through unruly locks, mouth set in a grim line and eyes piercing through everything, seeing everything, _knowing_ everything, and Sherlock would break a little bit more in ways he wouldn't forgive him for, not for at least three months. Three months of sulking and avoidance before he gave in, because it wasn't he who was waiting for an apology. Rather, it was he who needed forgiveness. Because Sherlock knew he cared, Sherlock knew _him_, but they rubbed each other the wrong way sometimes, they were both ruthless, a match for the other. That Sherlock was riled up more often, that he was more obvious, was perhaps a bit unfortunate, Mycroft thought. But in the end, he was his little brother. Sherlock would remember the fingers running through his hair and the smell of Mycroft that would always prompt a sense of safety before all else, before annoyance and rivalry and a need to prove himself. Sensory memory from comfort after nightmares, after falling down or waking in the hospital having lost six months of his life. Of being a constant in his life, of lending him a feeling that he was not alone in his mind, even though he knew Mycroft was at a level he would never reach.

Mycroft knew all this, because he always _knew_, so when Sherlock poked fun at his weight, drowned out his words by screeching on the violin, refused to communicate, Mycroft remained unconcerned, if a bit frustrated at his little brother's continuing immaturity that he couldn't seem to help bring out by his mere presence. The curse of an older sibling, he mused.

That John Watson had entered Sherlock's life during one of his sulks had perhaps contributed to the shock the man was most likely experiencing at the moment.

(The source of Sherlock's sulking at the time has been a smuggling ring, a kidnapping, and being beaten within an inch of his life, all recorded on his phone and sent to Mummy and his brother. A month in the hospital, two weeks in Mycroft's house being ruthlessly picked apart, silently scolded, leaning weakly into the protective embrace of his elder brother who had come home three days a week to wash blood off his hands, stone cold and rigid and impossible to read. Mycroft had not been sorry for the state he reduced his little brother to in retribution, Robbing him of his control, making him see the full extent of his error in the lines on his face and Mummy's sobbing over the phone. He'd run his finger through his hair until he fell asleep and made him breakfast, changed his bandages and administered the medicine, allowing him to see how it hurt him, how it killed him. Sherlock would not forgive him for months, would not be able to stand being near him for a long time).

After the pool incident. however, all explosions and special OPS and rescues and Mycroft ruining a new suit and not giving a sodding fuck, there was waking up in the hospital, already mending, and a frantic moment of knowing _nothing_.

Mycroft had the foresight to place them in the same room, Sherlock and John. He watched as the doctor came to, looking around for Sherlock, calming once he laid eyes on him. They both needed to know the other was alive, he knew, because the last thing they'd remember would be heat and pain and water. Mycroft squeezed the hand he was holding, not expecting a response for a while but tired enough to wish for it anyway. John looked away, most likely embarrassed at what must seem an uncharacteristic gesture. Mycroft was forever amused by the doctor's notion of him being a super villain out of a Bond movie and had considered greeting him with a cat in his lap in the backseat of his car or in his office. Sherlock has smiled reluctantly at the idea, momentarily allowing himself to set the latest grudge aside, if only for a few moments.

Silence for a minute or two, before John would no longer stop himself from asking the questions he needed the answers to. Mycroft had expected him to break earlier, but had learned not to underestimate the man the moment he met him. Sherlock would be quite offended he'd seen through him before his little brother; the affair with the cabbie had certainly not been much of a surprise. He would have congratulated John on his aim did he not possess a slightly more extensive Holmes-to-Normal, Normal-to-Holmes mental book of social interactions than his brother. John was unnerved as it was by him; there was no need to add fuel to fire before it was necessary.

The next half hour was dedicated to providing water to a parched throat and updating the doctor on the recent developments concerning Moriarty (a man he would find, strap to a chair, and remove piece by piece of his body with a fine scalpel – or maybe a rusty knife – until there was nothing left but a bloody pile of flesh, muscles, organs and bones. He'd draw the process out for a number of weeks, wishing for ways to revive him afterwards to do it all over again. He was completely sincere in admitting the difference in his brother's apparent cruelty and his own type of ruthlessness. He made sure Sherlock was unable to read more into the blood on his hands than was necessary).

The finely balanced report – some things he could not share, some he wouldn't – was interrupted by a weak squeeze of Mycroft's hand and a muttered attempt at his name. John's eyes widened, more likely due to the fact that Sherlock was waking than that the first name he spoke was his loathed brother, because he was a friend and a doctor first and had a selective observation. He did not see and understand all at one glance, something Mycroft had used to wonder about when he was a child and something Sherlock had asked him about, all curls and round cheeks, frustrated at the noise in his mind that would not stop.

"You're in the hospital, John's in the bed next to you and already awake. He's doing fine, and you are too," he soothed as his little brother squirmed in confusion, blinking away the fog of drugs and unconsciousness. When he refocused his gaze on him, Mycroft continued. "There's no sign of Moriarty, I've already taken several actions. I won't go into details on this until you're well enough to leave, and have already updated Doctor Watson on some points which you are already aware of."

Opening and closing his mouth several times to argue, Sherlock settled with a sigh at the look in his brother's eyes. John blinked in confusion at the easy surrender, looking over at Mycroft, who smiled thinly.

"How are you feeling, little brother?" he asked after a few moments, thumb stroking the hand he was still holding, which was now clasping his in return rather than lying limply in his hold. Sherlock studied him in silence, frowning slightly as he deduced how long he'd been there, how long it'd been since he'd eaten and slept, and Mycroft let him. He did not close himself off, was not planning on repeating their last routine, and Sherlock slowly relaxed and squeezed his hand again.

"Thirsty," he settled for, which Mycroft had anticipated, as there was already a prepared glass of water on the bedside table. He didn't let go of his hand as he leaned over to fetch it and hold it out for him, helping him hold it steady as he drank quietly.

"I had no choice, I'd calculated all other options," he said then, voice better now that his throat wasn't dried up. Mycroft titled his head in agreement, having already figured as much. It did little to soothe his anger, though Sherlock didn't need to know this, as the anger was not directed at him. Sensing something from him anyway, as was Sherlock's wont at some times, he hesitated before continuing. "You're not mad."

It was said as a statement rather than a question, but Mycroft confirmed it anyway. "Not at you, no." Sherlock already knew this, however, or Mycroft would not be sitting here allowing his shoulders to droop just slightly, his back relaxing into the chair. He blamed the drugs for making him hesitate anyway. Mycroft leaned over to card fingers through his hair, making him close his eyes and ignore the feeling of John's confused, shocked gaze in favor of breathing freely.

"How long will I have to stay here?" he asked after a while, words a bit slurred as his exhaustion crept up on him. Mycroft didn't stop his careful petting of dirty, lank curls as he hummed in thought.

"The doctors said a week; you both got away easy. I estimate I can get you out in five days, should you promise to continue the care properly at home," he offered, watching him lean into his touch and open his eyes.

"We can stay with you and you can see for yourself I'm not as bad as you accuse me of," Sherlock said, earning a strangled noise from John where he lay watching them in bewildered fascination. "We can work on Moriarty then too, easier access to the necessary information. I'm going to need you in on this anyway, and since you're going to do unspeakable things to find him all the same, we might as well work together."

This, Mycroft thought with an amused smile, was the moment John probably had a minor heart attack. Looking over at the doctor who was gaping as if he'd just seen them spurt wings and claws, he titled his head in understanding.

"I'm sure you are familiar with Sherlock's bouts of sulking, John," he began, ignoring Sherlock's warning grunt and weak tug at his hand as his free one left his hair, "It so happens this applies to our relationship as well, only a bit more extreme. He can hold quite the grudge."

"Ha! So can you, Mycroft! John, don't be fooled, he's even worse than I am!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at the expression of nearly constipated that the doctor was wearing in an attempt not to burst out laughing.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, smile softening at the face of his brother's agitation which faltered almost as quickly as it had been roused.

"I thought you hated him though," John directed to Sherlock, the first words he'd spoken in a long time now, having been too caught up in the exchange between the brothers. "You were quite…I mean Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring," he sighed, responding to Mycroft's raised brow with a grin.

"Let it be known Sherlock is the only one, apart from Mummy, who even comes remotely close to knowing me and the same goes for me concerning him. Well, there's you too now, of course," he added the last with a smile, enjoying the flushed faces of both men as they frowned and looked away. Really. "We have an understanding," he finished after a moment of awkward silence on the other men's part. Sherlock snorted and John nodded, looking quite eager to be done with this discussion.

"I'm knackered," the doctor exclaimed then, burrowing down into his bed and stifling a yawn (a real one, Mycroft noted). "I'm getting some sleep. You should too, and that goes for _both_ of you, you stubborn twats."

It took him ten minutes to drop off and fall into a light snore, leaving the brothers in a relatively calm silence.

"You stopped," Sherlock accused. Humming in question, knowing what he referred to but Mycroft was feeling quite content with just observing him breathe at the moment. "Fingers, hair," he continued, slightly annoyed, and made a flapping gesture with his free hand, and tugging on the other that held Mycroft's.

Smiling, Mycroft went to follow his brother's wishes when his glare stopped him. Titling his head in questions and raising a brow to prompt an explanation, Mycroft waited. Huffing, most likely annoyed that Mycroft didn't _know_ already, Sherlock let the lines around his eyes and mouth soften.

"Just until I'm asleep. Then you go and sleep in the extra bed you had pulled in here for that purpose. No more stupid vigil by my bedside. I've been awake now and am obviously better," he ordered, making Mycroft sigh and return his hand in his brother's curls.

"I promise, brother dear," he said, smiling slightly as the young man nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes.

It took him five minutes to join Doctor Watson in sleep, and a further fifteen before Mycroft made full on his promise and walked over to the empty bed, collapsing in exhaustion after almost three days on no sleep and too much coffee. When he woke, he'd go and take a shower, update himself on work, and return to the chair by Sherlock's side for a while more. In five days he'd play host to him and his doctor, and he'd watch as Sherlock mended, which in turn would serve better than any medicine or surgery on Mycroft himself. But for now, he'd reboot his body and prepare for all that it would need to do in the near future.

He, thankfully, did not dream.

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><p><strong>End notes: <strong>Thanks for reading! :)


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